the ballad of miss cinderella
by songs
Summary: Caroline groans. "What have I gotten myself into?" — ო klaroline.


**title: **the ballad of miss cinderella

**word count: **1817**  
**

**notes:** My first Vampire-Diaries fic. Pleaseeee review with your thoughts?

**setting:** Missing moments between 3x14 & 3x15.

**disclaimer: **i own nothing!

* * *

The whole ordeal is just _weird._

And not creepy-weird—although there is _definitely _a significant amount of creepy-weird to go around, because, _hello_, Klaus Mikaelson, Werepire Hybrid slash Mass-Murdering Whack-Job is _crushing _on her and leaving late-night gifts in her room, _shudder—_but just Weird-weird. Like, with capitals and all.

Sighing, Caroline lets her fingers run over the (extremely realistic and accurate, like, how did he manage to draw that when she _wasn't even there?_) sketch for what must be the zillionth time, hoping it doesn't smudge beneath the glance of her touch. It's—for lack of better words—_weird, _that those hands of his, (long and thin, moon-pale, with lingering piano-fingers) that have brought harm and death and sorrow for centuries and centuries, could do something as trivial and _human_ as putting pen to paper and sketching out the profile of a girl and a horse and _thank you for your honesty—_

Gently, she places the picture on her nightstand.

Anyway.

It's Weird-weird because _she's _the one being chased. She's _wanted. _He chose _her. _Not Elena. Not anybody else. _Her._

And she didn't need notice-me lipgloss and summer-gold curls and too-short skirts; she didn't need to kiss or throw around _i-love-you's _like they were worthless.

The first (or, _technically, _second, if she counts the hey-yeah-i'm-gonna-hybridize-your-boyfriend-now-bye-bye meeting at school) time _he _saw her, she was all bone-white and un-pretty and werewolf-bitey and brimming with little-girl words like _I don't want to die _and _You must be a billion or something—_and somehow, by some bizarre twist of fate, this Weird-weird situation came into motion and Klaus Mikaelson—_The Big Bad—_broke what was practically Boy Gospel, the clause (ha-ha-ha, Caroline giggles to herself) that read: "Let Caroline Forbes be thy _second _option, never thy first, never thy true" and yadda yadda yadda.

Of _course, _she thinks ruefully, the guy that leaves her diamond-bracelets and pretty-portraits and ball-gowns and doesn't make her over-prove herself to be _worthy _of him is none other than the Evillest Guy Who Ever Lived, an ancient hybrid ripper-killer-_not-_person who likely kicks puppies in his spare time.

Caroline groans. "What have I gotten myself into?"

Woe.

* * *

She's out for a jog—because being undead does _not _excuse being out of shape—when she sees the gaudy, ritzy-red sports car pull over towards the curb. A gaudy, ritzy-red sports car that is currently being operated by none other than—you guessed it—Friggin' _Klaus._

"Fancy meeting you here, love." He winks from the driver's seat.

"_Stalker," _she hisses. "Leave me alone."

"But, Caroline, darling, you really look like you could use a lift." At her disbelieving, albeit _unladylike _snort, he adds, "Come on, don't be shy. Just hop in."

Caroline decides that her feet are traitors; instead of _continuing to jog _and thus _ignoring the creepy-yet-undeniably-attractive evil vampire, _they remain rooted to the ground as she stares at him from the sidewalk, gaping with pale, parted lips.

"I..." She considers it for all of two seconds. Then her _brain turns on_. "I would rather burn in the sunlight and make margaritas out of my own, roasted blood," she says, Bitch Voice activated.

Klaus, clearly amused, lets out a low whistle. "Now, now, love, no need to be cruel. You could hurt a man's feelings with that tongue of yours."

Then he does that cute dimple-smirk-smile thing and Caroline _knows _she's pathetic for feeling flattered and for sort-of-kind-of wanting to flirt back but _ohmigod, _it's all like a fairytale out of her wildest dreams and she's only _seventeen _(technically eighteen but deep down she knows she has to come to terms with the fact that she's stuck in that filler year) and she's young and still stupid with hope and a yearning for True Love.

But she's still a little wiser than she was the first time she hit seventeen, so she says, seriously, veering off of their nonexistent topic: "Thanks for saving my life. Even if you were kinda the one who put it in danger by using your weird sire-bond thingy on Tyler—but, um, thanks. I guess you didn't have to. But you did."

She smiles weakly, before picking up her pace again. And then, because, hey, if she's going to be honest and pin her heart back onto her sleeve, she might as well go all out, she yells, over her shoulder, to a seemingly shell-shocked Klaus:

"And I really did like the drawing!"

* * *

She knows she's just broken out a game-changer and that this whole thing with Klaus is going to shift from Weird-weird to Certifiably Insane, but she can't find it in herself to care.

* * *

When she gets home that night—after listening to Elena moan on and on about the trouble in paradise with the Vampy-Threesome-Salvatore-Sandwich (please, she loves the girl, and most definitely does care for those two blood-boys, but seriously, Elena needs to pick, and let up with the whole 'I don't know' business; if _anyone _should be confused about their love life/lack thereof, it should be _her, _Caroline—flirted with an Original Vampire/Werewolf Overlord—Forbes)—she finds yet another mystery-box on her bed.

Gingerly, she unties the fate-red ribbon, and blinks at the slip of paper inside.

It's an address.

* * *

Against her better judgment, Caroline does some map-questing and out-of-house-sneaking the next day, when she _should _be going to school.

Instead, she drives on over to Klaus's Not-So-Secret-Lair, filling her head with quality excuses like: _If I don't go, I'll hurt his feelings and then he'll go and, like, murder everyone I've ever met ever._

She nods, totally convinced. _Not._

But because she is a Vampire Barbie and Vampire Barbies do _not _get cold feet—her feet are perfectly smooth and manicured, _thank you very much—_she parks in the long, winding driveway and makes her way towards the Mikaelson Mansion.

Gulp.

When she rings the doorbell, she half-prays for Rebekah or someone who is _distinctly not Klaus _to answer the door because, _ohmigod_ she can't handle this—_why would he invite her to his house_?

The door opens, and—

Wow.

Okay.

Of _course _it's Klaus.

"Why, hello there, Caroline." Dimple-smirking-murderer-jerk! "Fancy seeing you here."

"Let me in," she says lowly. His lips only quirk more _prettily, _and she tacks on, "Ugh, _please_."

He looks _way _too amused. "Very well. I don't want to leave you here _begging_. Come in."

"I'm not—urgh—whatever!" Caroline stomps into the _ginormous _palace-house, hands on her hips. "_You _invited _me_ here! Don't go changing the story on me, mister!"

"Oh, well, I suppose I did, now, didn't I?" He smiles. "Forgive me, Caroline, you're just so _lovely _when you're riled up."

She feels the blush in her cheeks, bright and hot, and finds herself scrambling for her words. "Why did you..." She swallows, tries again. "What do you want from me, Klaus?"

He probably thinks of her as a plaything. Expendable. Cherry-lips and doll-hair and air between her ears. Easy. Cheap.

Klaus quirks an eyebrow. "I thought it was obvious." At her dark glare, he smiles grandly. "I just want your company, Caroline."

"—you're a _disgusting _old man, you hear me—wait, _what_?" She blinks, completely taken aback. "Come again?"

Klaus—who is becoming harder and harder to connect to the crazy-psycho-killer persona she's had pegged on him—_laughs._

It's husky and deep and _beautiful._

"You're so _refreshing._" His seaglass eyes are twinkling. "I quite enjoy that. It's _exquisite._"

And as Klaus goes on to spend the day asking her about her life and her dreams and all of that jazz, Caroline cannot help but think that, _enormous _age-gap and evil, murderous, hybridifying tendencies aside, Klaus is quite charming.

* * *

Oh.

She falls in love too easily.

* * *

He gives her back the bracelet.

She doesn't wear it, but she keeps it on her vanity-table, and stares at the starry, dream-diamonds every night.

* * *

It's not easy, but sometimes, _sometimes, _she can get him to offer her a story-shard of his unimaginable span of life; he'll tell her about the cities he's visited, the wines he's tasted, the stars he's gazed at.

He rarely talks about _people_, though. He makes it sound as if he's been alone for all of this time.

She wonders if she's the first to ever listen to him like this. To ever get close to him like this. To ever _care _like this.

To live a thousand years on your own—it makes all of her own problems, great as they may be, seem a little trivial.

Caroline's heart—whatever's left of it, she's given up pieces of it to so many of her friends, her family, even if none of them ever wanted it—goes out to him.

* * *

Strangely enough, _she _kisses _him _first.

"It's not fair," she's saying, swiping the tears from her eyes. "I'm supposed to want you to die. You're supposed to be this big, evil _monster._ But you're _not. _And I—I'm falling for you, and it's not supposed to be like this, and _I don't know what to do._"

They're in her room, on her bed, an arm's length apart. They _never _do anything like kissing or touching—_never. _It's all about the words and she can tell he's struggling with something inside of himself, as if he's lived his thousand years just to make it to this moment and not screw it up and she sees his arms twitching as if he wants to reach her and _that's it, _she breaks, and leans in and kisses him, hard on the mouth.

* * *

It's all too much.

There is tugging and pulling and something raw, something pulsing through her dead-veins and she's never felt so—so _cared _for: not with Matt, not with Tyler, not _ever _like this, with _him _holding her like she's a lifeline, like she'll disappear if he so much as lets go.

And then:

"I don't want to be your ruin," he says into her lips, as his palms hungrily roam over her sides, her hips. Breathlessly, he pulls back, regret lingering in those old, old eyes. "I want your happiness, Caroline, even more than I want _you_. And you won't find that with me. Please understand that."

She doesn't have time to protest; in the blink of an eye, he's untangled from her and her arms feel empty and he is _gone._

* * *

Another one left her.

They always, _always_ leave.

* * *

There are no more drawings and bracelets and sneaking kisses.

Ironically, Caroline's never felt more dead.

* * *

When Damon asks her to distract Klaus and (to a lesser extent) Kol so that they can, you know, _kill them forever_ and stuff, her heart screams no.

Caroline _knows _what's right and what's wrong but what she _feels _is completely different.

But then she remembers him letting her go and she wonders if, maybe, this is all part of some Divine Plan to smash her soul into pieces and if this will be there final goodbye and she doesn't want to, she will _never want to_, but this is for the greater good, and so—

—her lips say yes.

* * *

In the deep, _deep _(like, ocean deep, but _deeper) _depths of her mind, she admits to herself that she did love him.

* * *

**AN:**

First TVD fic! Written after marathoning seasons 1-3 over the past week.

Please review with your thoughts? ^_^

~Nora


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